Baby Mix-up at GRI Resolved!

A spokesperson for Glossop Royal Infirmary confirmed this morning that baby Coleen Crisp and baby Kyle Fishwick, accidentally given to the wrong parents upon their mothers’ discharge from GRI’s Maternity Unit [GRIMU], have now been reunited with the right mums and dads.

Our pictures show (top) Steve and Angelique Fishwick cradling what in fact is baby Coleen Crisp, whilst below they are holding their very own baby Kyle.

Said Angelique, “We knew as soon as we got her home that there was something not quite right.” Added hubby Steve, “It was the nose what done it for me. Nobody in our families has such a long nose.”

Tom and Leonora Crisp refused to comment but did release the following statement through their solicitor Mr Ambrose Pewting, “We are going to sue the pips out of GRIMU, then take Coleen to Disneyland.”

Thought for the Day, with Justin Webly, more or less Arch of Cant

Hullo,

        

Justin here. Soon, all our futures will be decided, for good or ill, by the results of the imminent General Election. My position dictates that I must remain neutral in terms of political fealty – something I try very hard to do – seeking instead to care for the spiritual well-being of our great country. But, you know, the spiritual and secular are so often inextricably bound in our complicated lives, it is hard to see boundaries. When I discussed this theme with the young man with the wire in his ear, I was heartened by his response. “Go for it Archie!” he said, adding, “Remember Wonga!” 

Now, I must admit that the name still makes my pulse race. You may remember, dear reader, that some time ago I condemned that company’s disgraceful moneylending activities (shortly before I discovered that my own Church of England paid some of its employees below the living wage – but that’s another story).

Significantly, new moneylending regulations are now in place and Wonga is presently facing deep financial trouble  They are even thinking of changing their name, so anxious are they to rid themselves of any association with the idea of extortion. So yes, I think that I may count that as a spiritual victory. 

But presently I am being asked my opinion about the various political parties contesting the upcoming election; something I find very difficult to do. I have in fact met them all. Mr Cameron needs no introduction of course. He is very pleasant, affable, articulate and remarkably shiny. His Deputy, Mr Clegg, is more puzzling. He appears young and slightly tousled. I am no political guru, but during our short meeting I got the distinct impression that he hadn’t got a clue what he was talking about. But at the same time I felt that he wanted me to like him. 

I don’t think Mr Miliband cared about my personal preferences. He, poor man, has been mocked unmercifully in the media, from his facial similarity to a cartoon character to his difficulties with a rogue bacon sandwich. Our Lord Jesus Christ suffered mockery from all quarters, but eventually triumphed most gloriously. Consequently I must admit that my heart went out to Ed.

Most curious were my few minutes with Mr Nigel Farage. The young man with the wire in his ear had suggested that I “watch this one, Archie, he’s slippery”. Truth to tell, we had hardly shaken hands when my lady wife appeared. Her greeting was fulsome – she’s very keen on UKIP – and she ushered a smiling Mr Farage away to our private apartment. Loud laughter and the clinking of bottles were reported for hours afterwards.

But now I must deal with a barrage of letters and emails I have received from the UK Bridge Union who seek my support in their attempts to have bridge recognised as a sport. As I often do with things vexatious, I asked the young man with the wire in his ear for his opinion. His reply was brief and to the point. “What a load of cock,"he said.

Pip, pip,

Justin

"Ah yes - should have warned you. At the height of summer Muriel comes over all winsome."

Pangolin News Flash!

"Huge Relief" at Derbyshire find

Ralph Utterly reports:

Last week, Council officials, Police, Fire and volunteers were involved in searching for the key to Glossop’s recently completed and aptly named “New Hall”. Emergency services were called in when caretaker Derek Blaylock found that he was unable to open the door. Said Derek, “I realised that the door wouldn’t open because I hadn’t got the key.”

Quick-thinking Derek went to look for the all-important key immediately, but was unsuccessful. Derek continued, “It suddenly dawned on me that if I didn’t have the key, somebody else must have had it.” Derek was later praised for his resourcefulness by Chief Inspector Gwyneth Blenny. “Had it not been for Derek raising the alarm, no-one would have known the key was missing until somebody else tried to gain access," said C.I. Blenny.

Hours later, after a painstaking search of the surrounding area and of local council officials, the missing key was found in the turn up of Councillor William Groat’s trousers. Later, at a celebratory dinner to mark the discovery, Councillor Groat joked, “Well, that was a real turn up and no mistake.”

Left to Right: Major (retd) Randoph Blast, Councillor Arnold Whine, Councillor Terence Tightplug, Mrs Eileen Tightplug, Chief Inspector Blenny (in civvies), Mr Derek Groat, Mrs Muriel Groat (47), Councillor Frank Gumfoddering, PC Maurice Mimby (in civvies) (stroking white mouse in pocket).

Lord Throbbington-Trouser: Dead People should do some kind of Community Work

Throbbington-Trouser: "The deceased are a waste of space"

Former Head of ATOS, the controversial company renowned for announcing that zombies should become useful members of society - or risk losing their performing rights, has now made a pronouncement.

Declaring that dead people are 'nothing more than a waste of space' he is now urging government to order the deceased to find gainful employment, or risk losing their holes in the ground.

With space at a premium in the City of Westminster, he has announced that the country can no longer spare the room for all these dead weights and that they 'jolly well ought to start making themselves useful'.

Amid accusations that Nazi Germany had similar ideas, and that their lampshades ought to be examined more closely, Throbbington-Trouser refuted absolutely any assertion that he was a heartless whackjob bastard.

'Why', he intoned to a BBC reporter, 'They could easily get jobs as exam invigilators, or even sit in the House of Lords. They'd fit in immediately.'

Thought for the Day, from Justin Webly, more or less Arch of Cant

Hullo, 

Justin here.

And first, let me thank all of you who sent their sympathy and wishes for my speedy recovery in the matter of my bad back. I am pleased to say that thanks in no small part to the young man with the wire in his ear who appears to have access to all manner of powerful analgesics, the discomfort has lessened somewhat.                   

Interestingly, my PA, the ever resourceful Miss Gittins, discovered that I am eligible for the C of E Clerical Physiotherapy Service and last Thursday, a substantial young woman named, if I remember correctly, Gudrun, presented herself, satisfied the young man with the wire in his ear as to her identity and, for want of a better word, attacked me, bending me over one sturdy knee whilst intoning “Ahh, that is good, no?” Eventually, my cries were answered by the young man with the wire in his ear who was able to persuade Gudrun to put me down, by levelling his automatic pistol at her.

Fortunately, no damage seems to have been done and after embarrassed apologies all round, Gudrun made her exit, muttering, “Huh. Must go. Curate. Hackney. Sleeped disc”. After two rather attractively coloured purple tablets from the young man with the wire in his ear, I felt much better, quite elated in fact, and went about my daily round.

In fact, an incident occurred during those duties which I will relate to you now. As I was leaving my private vestry, I sensed someone behind me. I turned and beheld a handsome though troubled-looking man in, I would guess, his forties. He was perspiring slightly and his well-cut suit was rumpled; his corn-yellow tie definitely off centre. He seemed somehow familiar. “Yes?” I said, “How may I help you?” He looked furtive, glancing from right to left then suddenly blurted, “Your Grace, your grace! Everybody hates me. Call me a traitor. They want me out! I’m gonna lose my job! I wonder – can you put in a good word for me with, with, you know….” 

At this he pointed to the ceiling. Suddenly, around the corner strode the young man with the wire in his ear, fixed the distressed stranger with an icy gaze and said, “Right, you’ve had your two minutes. Now, on your way!” With a sob, the stranger went. I was staggered. “Who on earth was that?” I asked.

“Oh him?” said the young man with the wire in his ear. “Coughed up 50 notes for the Widows and Orphans Fund for two minutes of your time."

“Yes, yes," I said rather testily, “But who is he?”

“Name of Clegg” came the answer. “Nick Clegg.”